


Snowfall

by Rhiannon87



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon87/pseuds/Rhiannon87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders was twelve years old when he burned the family barn down, when the Templars came for him. Twelve years old, and it was snowing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowfall

_He hates remembering this. He tries not to think about it, tries not to remember. He pretends that his life started when he was twelve or eighteen or twenty-four. He tries so very, very hard not to remember._

It's going to snow tonight. Anders can tell. The air tastes cold and crisp, and the clouds are just the right shade of grey. Tomorrow, there'll be snowball fights with Papa and warm stew for dinner. But for now, his chores are done, and dinner's not for another few hours. He has time.

Anders climbs up into the hayloft and nestles back into the loose hay. He sits there, silently, listening harder than he's ever listened in his life (except for last week, and the time before that, and all the other times), making sure that there's no one in the barn but him and the cows. It's quiet. He lets out a slow breath and holds his hands up in front of his face. He bites his lip, concentrating, then smiles as frost covers his fingertips.

He knows it's wrong. Mama and Papa take him to the Chantry to hear the sermons, same as everyone else in the village, and he _knows_ what mages are. Terrible, powerful people who sacrifice innocent children to demons in monstrous rituals. But he's not like that. He doesn't even like blood. Cora cut her hand on the broken gate last summer, and he'd nearly passed out. He wouldn't hurt anyone.

He rubs his hands together, melting the frost. Another long stretch of listening, making sure that he's alone. Anders has known about the ice for a long time. Almost a year since he woke up to find his arms covered in it, up to the elbows, his room full of snow. He'd been lucky then-- it had snowed the night before, and he broke the window, told Papa that it must have happened in the night. But yesterday he made lightning jump from his fingers. It was an accident, but he knew he could figure it out. Just like the ice.

Anders holds his hands a few inches apart and concentrates, trying to remember how it had felt, electricity sparking out to the muddy ground. After almost a minute, electricity jolts between his palms. He laughs in spite of himself. Lightning in his hands.

He spends almost half an hour practicing, and before long he's got his arms spread as wide as they can go, bouncing little lightning bolts between his hands. He's so absorbed in the magic that he doesn't hear the barn door open ( _and decades later, he's still telling himself to stop, wishing that he'd just listen_ ), doesn't hear his cousin on the ladder until it's too late. Cora gasps, startling him, and dozens of lightning bolts spray out from his hands. They strike the hay and the wood; Cora's back on the ground and running to the door as the flames spread.

Anders spends a moment staring at the fire in blinding, abject terror. Scared of the fire, yes, but more scared of getting caught. Of being found. Something overrides the paralysis and he slides down the ladder. He has to get away. They'll lock him away or kill him if they find him.

So he runs.

He goes out the back door and runs straight for the woods, tears freezing to his face, wind slicing through his coat. Behind him, there's shouting and the crackle of fire. He doesn't look back.

Anders stumbles through the underbrush, branches snapping under his feet, slipping in the half-frozen mud. There's a tree in a clearing, and last summer he wasn't big enough to climb it but Mama said he's growing so fast, maybe now... It doesn't take him long to find the tree. He jumps for the lowest branch, and misses. He tries again, and again, and again, then scrabbles at the trunk, trying to get enough of a grip to pull himself up. He can't reach it.

He scrubs at his eyes and curls up against the tree, wedged between two large roots, and pulls his coat around himself. It's so cold. It's cold, and it's starting to get dark, and he just wants to go home. But he can't. He knows he can't. They know, now. They all know. Cora tells everybody everything. He wrote a secret letter to Livy, said he thought she was the prettiest girl in town, and Cora found out it was him and told them all.

Someone's shouting the woods. Calling his name. The one someone is joined by others, by voices he recognizes, his uncles and older cousins, calling for him. They've got lanterns and torches and they're angry, he can tell. Anders huddles deeper into the mud and pulls his coat up over his head, praying that they won't find him.

The shouting gets louder. Turns into footsteps, running towards him, and he tries to get up, tries to run, but the mud's slick and he slips and falls down and someone's got his arm. “Got him!” Uncle Otto shouts. Anders fights him, trying to push him away; Otto smacks him upside the head. “Stop it,” he grinds out. “Maker forgive my brother for whatever he did to deserve _this_.”

Otto's joined by his sons, and they drag him back to the village. The barn's gone, burned to the ground, and he can smell charred meat. Everyone's standing outside his house. Cora's clinging to her mother's arm, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Everyone is staring at him.

“Here's your boy, Lukas,” Otto snaps, tossing Anders to the ground at his father's feet.

Anders scrambles to his knees. Papa's staring at him the same way he stares at rats that get into the kitchen. He's disgusted. ( _And that's what broke him, that's what drove him to this, because he never wanted another little boy to have his father look at him like that ever again._ ) Mama's collapsed on the porch behind him, sobbing, while Aunt Hana rubs her back and glares at him like this is all his fault.

It is all his fault.

“Send for the Templars,” Papa says, and grabs his arm, pulling him to his feet.

“Papa,” Anders pleads, crying again, as his father drags him towards the cellar. “Papa, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, Papa, I'm so sorry, I'll be good, I promise, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” His father yanks the cellar doors open and shoves Anders down the short flight of steps. He lands in a heap in the dirt, dazed. His father steps away from the door, and he realizes what's happening just a second too late. “No! No, Papa, please, no, I'm sorry--”

The cellar door slams shut, leaving him alone in the dark.

 _He doesn't remember this part very well. He knows he slept. He knows he cried, and screamed, and sat on the stairs by the door and begged someone to let him out. He knows he prayed. He knows the sun rose three times before the doors opened again._

The sudden light is blinding. Anders cowers back against the wall, bringing his arms up to shield his face. “In there?” a muffled voice asks. A reply, too quiet for him to hear, then an armored figure descends the stairs. Shimmering silverite armor with a flaming sword etched into the breastplate. Their village is small, but not so small that their Chantry hasn't seen a Templar or two passing through.

The man grabs Anders and pulls him to his feet. He's too scared to fight, too scared to do anything but let himself be marched back up the stairs, back outside. There's two more Templars, and three horses, and everyone's there again, watching.

“No!” Mama breaks away from the crowd and runs towards him, ignoring Papa's shouts for her to stop. She throws her arms around him and hugs him tight, and he's crying again, clinging to her, whispering apologies again.

“Please, ser,” she begs. “Please, he's my only child. Don't take him away. Please.”

“He's a mage,” the Templar says. “He must go to the Tower.”

Someone starts to pull Mama away, at the same time as the Templars puts his hand on Anders's shoulders and gently but firmly pulls him back. Mama screams, reaching for him, as Papa drags her away. Anders stares at her, tears streaking down his face, as the Templar kneels down and clasps heavy iron manacles on his wrists. They're almost too big for him, and the man sighs, looking tired.

“You ever ride a horse before?” he asks quietly. Anders nods, once. “Good.” The Templar stands and picks him up, putting him on the riderless horse, before swinging into the saddle behind him. He gestures at his companions. “Let's go. It's going to snow again tonight, we need to cover as much ground as possible.”

The horse turns, and they ride out of the village. He tries to look back, but the Templar's arm is in the way, and he can't see anything. Then they turn onto the main road and it's gone.

“ _Something wrong, love?”_

 _A hand on his shoulder. He glances away from the window and forces a smile, shakes his head. “No, I-I'm fine.” He reaches up and squeezes his lover's hand. “Just don't like the snow much.”_


End file.
